


How Many Miles To Babylon? (M. François le Villard's Case)

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [38]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, France (Country), Inheritance, London, M/M, Robbery, Slow Burn, Treasure Hunting, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 07:12:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15238143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: In an unusual case, Holmes is called in to once again put justice before the law – except that his real client is already dead!





	How Many Miles To Babylon? (M. François le Villard's Case)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lamplighter1890](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lamplighter1890/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

This was to be the last case before my brother's adventure later published as _The Sign Of The Four_ in which Watson was destined to meet his second wife, Miss Mary Morstan. She was as sweet-natured as the first Mrs. Watson and I do not know why my brother did not take to her at all; indeed, once they were married he disappeared abroad for much of the second half of that year, although my beloved Kean was surely incorrect when he remarked that Sherlock was indulging in a long sulk.

I have yet to work out how he can manage to convey a judgemental silence through a closed door. But the fact that I am sitting on a cushion and still aching many hours into the day shows that he is a man of many, _many_ talents!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

This case, as with several others, concerns events in Great Britain's erstwhile neighbour across the Channel and more recent sort-of ally, France. It was then some seventeen years since Europe had been shocked to see that once-proud nation humbled by mighty Germany, and the provinces of Alsace and Lorraine stripped from her. With much of France's industrial strength close to its north-eastern border, any further successful war on the part of the Kaiser would likely cripple the second-greatest Empire in the world, so it remained as it always had been in Great Britain's interests that the current balance of power be maintained. Hence I was not surprised when I arrived home from the surgery one day to find that I had just missed a visit from Mr. Mycroft Holmes, although the obviously fake sincerity with which I greeted that 'misfortune' had even the great detective smiling.

“He spent the best part of a quarter of an hour not telling me what he wanted”, Holmes said, “until I made clear that we were not going to be at his disposal without _all_ the facts.”

(As he must have known it would, the use of the first person plural pronoun made me feel as if I was of some small use to him).

“What is the problem at hand?” I asked, glad to see that there was a roaring fire to hand. It was as ever bitterly cold outside, made worse by one of those 'lazy winds' that go straight through you because they cannot be bothered to go around.

“As someone as learnéd as you must know”, he said, “the French monarchy ended some eighteen years ago since when various branches of the Bourbons have contested to be considered the legitimate claimants to the title. An empty title as there is little if any desire from the French people to be a monarchy again, but it now has the potential to be deadly to the current regime.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Like governments everywhere, those in power often help themselves to what previous regimes have built up”, Holmes said. “One prominent minister in the current government decided to borrow a necklace that, so it is said, was once the property of Queen Marie Antoinette, who as we know lost her head in the Revolution. Quite why the man's wife wished to wear such an ill-starred gewgaw the Lord alone knows, but it has brought as much trouble as its provenance should have suggested it might. A thief stole it some months ago and, as he was an Englishman, brought it over to England.”

“And they have only brought you in on the matter now?” I asked. “Surely it is a little late?”

Holmes sighed.

“The minister involved decided the best course of action was to keep quiet and hope it might all go away”, he said. “Foolish man! Governments leak more than colanders; predictably someone talked and there is now pressure on the government to produce the item. Which obviously they cannot.”

“Do they know the identity of the fellow who stole it?” I asked.

“That they do”, Holmes said. “Or did. A Mr. Alexander Branson, one of London's most serial thieves. Quite what he was doing over in France they do not know; perhaps another leak alerted him to potentially easy pickings.”

“You said 'did'”, I observed. “Has something happened to him?”

“He was one of those involved in the attempted robbery at Garston's Bank last week”, Holmes said. “As you may recall from the _”Times”_ all four men were shot; two of them, including Mr. Branson, fatally. The question now is whether he communicated the whereabouts of the necklace to someone, possibly a member of the gang he last worked with. If he did, then the need to find it increases as that information might be traded on and the item found ere long.”

“So that was why your anno.... your brother was round earlier”, I said, blushing at the verbal slip. His slight smile told me that he had spotted it but fortunately he refrained from comment.

“The British Government and the Metropolitan Police Service for that matter are instructed to give the French every aid in recovering the necklace”, he said. “Mycroft suggested sending over one of their brighter officers to liaise with my good self, which I suspect was as much deflection as true assistance. Fortunately I know the fellow – a Monsieur François le Villard – and he is one of the best officers south of The Channel. He should be here tomorrow.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

I did not know what to expect of our Gallic visitor when he arrived just twenty-four hours later, but what was shown up (by Mrs. Hudson herself!) was not it. Monsieur le Villard looked much more the typical English country squire than the typical French policeman, right down to the untidy blond hair and the monocle that he occasionally took out and polished. His most unusual feature was a set of strange-coloured light green eyes, of a shade that I had never seen before. He was however amiable enough and Holmes vouched for him, so he had to be all right.

“This is very good of you to take an interest in our theft, Mr. Holmes”, he said, and I noted also that his French accent was almost non-existent. “Paris would be intensely grateful to have that little bauble returned in order to scotch all the rumours about its theft.”

“Tell me more about the thief”, Holmes said. “I remember that character analysis was always a strength of yours.”

“Mr. Alexander Branson”, our visitor said. “He moved from Scotland to England some four years ago. The Gods were on the side of the law-abiding back then, at least for a while. There was that an accident on the main line to London so he was switched to the line that runs across country to a town called Leeds. It was on that train that he met a young lady, a Miss Gladys Welsh. Apparently there is such a thing as love at first sight, for they were married as soon as the three weeks were up.”

“Did he not have to register in a London parish first?” I asked, surprised.

“He had come south because he had inherited a small house in the Minories, from a distant cousin”, our visitor explained. “The banns were published there, and they were married there too. But it all ended ill, I am sorry to say. She became pregnant but the baby was born a month early and she died in childbirth. The child, named for her mother, only just survived. For the next two years Mr. Branson kept out of trouble, but then a cousin of his moved from Cheshire to just outside London and she took the child in for him from time to time, which meant that he could turn back to his old life.”

“I do not recall coming across the name”, Holmes said. “How is it that he went from small-time criminal activity to crossing the Channel and stealing your necklace?”

Our visitor blushed, and looked awkwardly at me.

“I can keep a confidence”, I said, a little huffily.

“Mr. Holmes said you could”, he said. “There was yet another government scandal, and a certain minister – who has since been dismissed – tried to suppress it by having a man killed. That man had an English wife and she fled to this country; we believe that she leaked the information about the necklace, and that she most likely contacted Mr. Branson.”

“Is there anyone who the late Mr. Branson might have been inclined to pass on the whereabouts of the necklace?” Holmes asked. 

“I did think his cousin, a Mrs. Arlesburgh”, our visitor said, “but she disapproved strongly of his activities and tolerated them only because of her attachment to her niece. He lived with the girl in a small cottage in Buckinghamshire – her health has never been good, and I understand that his cousin persuaded her husband to rent a cottage away from the city for the child's sake.”

“Perhaps he left a clue there?” I said hopefully.

“It may be”, our visitor said. “I spoke to your Inspector Lestrade, and he was of the opinion that there was not really anyone in the criminal fraternity that the man would have trusted with the jewels. I think that he would have tried to leave them to his daughter in some way, though I do not see how.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Monsieur le Villard told us what little else he knew and Holmes decided that it might be beneficial to speak to Mrs. Esmeralda Arlesburgh first. Fortunately she and her husband lived in Harrow and quite close to the railway station, so Holmes sent off a telegram to see if she might accept a visit. An affirmative came back that evening and it was arranged that we would go there on the morrow.

The next day the two of us took a cab to Euston and after a short journey arrived at Harrow & Wealdstone station, where a second cab took us into town and deposited us outside “The Blue Boy”. I hardly needed to ask which of the patrons was our client; a lady dressed in mourning clothes sat stiffly upright at one of the tables, a cup of tea before her. Holmes walked up to her and bowed.

“Mrs. Arlesburgh?” he asked politely. “I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague Doctor John Watson. Thank you for agreeing to spare us some of your valuable time this day.”

We ordered two more coffees and some cakes, and Holmes got straight to the point.

“You are clearly an upstanding citizen”, Holmes said, “so I feel no scruples about discussing certain elements of the case concerning your cousin’s recent activities with you. He was involved in the theft of a certain item of jewellery, the consequences of which may have certain political repercussions if it cannot be recovered soon. There is the prospect that he may have passed on the whereabouts of said item to one of his associates, although I myself think that he would have essayed in some way to leave it to his daughter.”

“And your own involvement in this matter?” she asked, a little harshly.

“It is twofold”, he said. “The detective assigned to recover the item is someone I think highly of, so I am assisting him. And I believe that there may be a reward once the item is recovered. Should there be one, I shall insist that it be set aside for the use of Miss Branson.”

“Sir!” she protested.

“Not solely as an inheritance”, he went on. “I have to say that it is exceptionally kind-hearted of you to take on such a responsibility for a cousin of whose activities you rightly disapproved. However, even with your husband’s help raising a child is an expensive business. That reward, if I earn it, would be for you to use as you see fit until she is twenty-one, and for her thereafter.”

Mrs. Arlesburgh nodded, and seemed to think for a while before speaking.

“There is very little that I can tell you, Mr. Holmes”, she said. “I usually left Alex and Gladys alone, so he could have his time with her. Despite his... 'activities' he was a kind man at heart, and never happier than when he was with her. I have heard how sometimes the smallest things can help reveal the truth to you, and there is one matter that I did not like to bother the authorities with. Perhaps you can make something out of it.”

“Please go on”, Holmes said.

“Alexander always liked to sing nursery rhymes when he put Gladys to bed”, she said. “He really had the most terrible voice, but she loved it nonetheless. I only thought of this after his death, but the more I thought about it the stranger it seemed. You see, before the robbery he would recite different rhymes with her each time; she was too young to have favourites. He used to just recite the ones he himself knew, but some months before he died he ordered a book of them, and would recite stories from that. I noted that he would use one much more than the others, which I thought odd as it was one I myself had never heard of.

“Which rhyme?” I asked, sitting forward.

“The one about the journey to Babylon”, she said. “His house was called Babylon Cottage, so I thought maybe that might have been the reason. It just seemed... strange.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Saturday found Holmes poring over a map I had not seen before. It turned out to be a map of England on which he had marked out Amersham, the town on the edge of which the late Mr. Alexander Branson had had his cottage. There was also a large black circle drawn on it. My friend looked up at me and frowned.

“I do not see it”, he said, scowling at the map.

“See what?” I asked.

He handed me a sheet of paper, and I realized that it was the nursery thyme that the late Mr. Branson had favoured:

_'How many miles to Babylon?_   
_Three score miles and ten._   
_Can I get there by candle-light?_   
_Yes, and back again._   
_If your heels are nimble and your toes are light,_   
_You may get there by candle-light.'_

“Now I do not see it”, I said.

“The proscribed circle is seventy miles – three score miles and ten – around his cottage in Buckinghamshire”, Holmes said. “Mrs. Arlesburgh kindly gave me a list of all the places she knew her late cousin to have been associated with, but none of them lie anywhere near that distance from his house.”

“Maybe the distance is seventy miles from somewhere else?” I suggested.

“Inspector le Villard is bringing round a copy of the late Mr. Branson's will”, he said. “Perhaps there is a clue in that; I have had more than one case when what is written down and what people think is written down were two very different things.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“There is one very curious thing”, Monsieur le Villard said once we had digested the will. “It concerns a bequest that Mr. Branson left to his cousin, Mrs. Arlesburgh. In the words of the will, it was 'the cat and all its accoutrements'.”

“What about it?” I asked.

“Mr. Branson did not have a cat.”

We both looked at him in surprise.

“That seems strange”, Holmes said. “I take it that the police have placed a guard on the cottage in order to prevent Mr. Branson's criminal associates from searching the place.”

“Your brother told me that they had”, the inspector said. “And with good cause; someone tried to break in shortly after the man's death. Fortunately they fled when they realized that they were outnumbered.”

“We should go there at once”, Holmes said firmly. “There is the danger that that person may return with reinforcements, and we do not want the Wild West breaking out in the Chilterns, despite that area's turbulent past. Watson, can you check the trains, please?”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

A short time later we left Baker Street early and took an underground train to the end of the line at Rickmansworth (the Metropolitan Railway's extension to our destination was then still being built), and then a cab to the cottage. I was pleased to see the constable on duty outside the place, and he duly admitted us.

I am proud to say (because it was such a rare event) that this was one of the times when I actually helped provide the solution to a case. We had looked around the main room of the downstairs but it had seemed spectacularly unremarkable.

“Did Mr. Branson spend time at sea?” I asked the inspector. He looked at me in surprise.

“No”, he said. “His record showed that he never left England apart from his brief and expensive trip to my own country. Why do you ask?”

“There seems to be a lot of pictures of ships”, I said, looking around the room. “It just......”

I trailed off. A fantastic thought had just occurred to me.

“Whips!” I almost yelled.

The others looked at me as if I had gone mad but they were too polite to say so. I spluttered with the effort of getting out what I wanted to say.

“Cats!” I exclaimed, doubtless puzzling them both even further. “The old name for the whip used on sailors was 'the cat-o'-nine-tails'!”

We all stared at each other for a moment, then raced upstairs to the consternation of the constable who was making us drinks in the kitchen. A frantic search of the upstairs rooms followed, until the inspector found a metal box under the child's bed. Upending it onto the bed it revealed four items, one of which was indeed the terrible cat-o'-nine-tails. The other things were a carved tusk presumably from some luckless sea-creature, a small notebook and a jewellery box. Holmes picked the tusk up whilst I examined the notebook and the inspector opened the box. 

“Empty!” he spat out.

“Absolutely nothing!” I said in frustration. “Someone has torn out half the pages, and the rest are blank!”

“This is strange”, Holmes said, looking closely at the tusk. “It has the name 'Gladys' carved into it.”

“So?” I said. “That was his wife's name, and his daughter's.”

“Yes”, he said slowly, “but some other name has been erased or changed by it. The spacing is not quite right, and an extra letter has been rubbed out.” He squinted, trying to make out the incredibly faint marks. “After the 'G' and the 'L.... A-L-I-C.... the missing letter must be an 'E'. I wonder who Alice was?”

“Possibly a girl he once knew”, I said. “Or maybe the lady for whom the original carving was done.

I picked up the cat, and stared hopefully at it. It was (horribly) the real thing, and I ran my hand along one of the tails, shuddering when I thought how they had once been used on poor sailors. 

It was then that I noticed it. Someone had obviously used a metal type to imprint a letter 'O' near the end. I fumbled for a moment, then examined the other ends. 

Jackpot!

“Holmes!” I hissed. “Look!”

I showed them both the cat, and jotted down the letters. In addition to the 'O', we had two 'D's, another 'O' and one each of 'G', 'S', 'N', 'C' and 'L'. 

“Only two vowels, and both 'O's?”, the inspector observed, frowning. “GOLD CONDS? Or is one of the 'D's really an 'I', and the phrase 'gold coins'?”

Holmes smiled that knowing smile of his and almost ran over to the bookshelf. He fumbled for only a few moments before holding up a book in triumph, and bringing it over to me.

 _“'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland'?”_ I asked.

“By that most interesting author, Mr. C. L. Dodgson”, he grinned. 

“The letters!” I almost shouted.

Holmes was flipping through the book, until he came to the picture showing a pair of shoes lit by candlelight. Taped to the page was a receipt for a London jewellery store, which he read aloud.

“'Fake copy of lost family heirloom necklace; diamonds, emeralds, rubies, sapphires and topazes, plus distressing services. Sum total three hundred pounds'.”

He opened the jewellery box and extracted a beautiful necklace with over twenty different coloured stones in it. It was dazzling!

“The necklace?” the inspector asked. Holmes shook his head.

“A fake”, he said. “But it does tell me where the real one is.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

To my immense chagrin Holmes would not tell me what he knew except to say that he had scheduled a further meeting with Mrs. Arlesburgh the following day, and had reassured the inspector that he would have the item back by the following evening. 

The following day we met Mrs. Arlesburgh again in “The Blue Boy”. Holmes came straight to the point.

“I now know the whereabouts of the money hidden by your cousin”, he said. “And loath though I am to say it, you were not completely honest with us, madam.”

She looked shocked at that.

“I assure you, sir, I told you everything”, she said starchily.

“Except about Mr. Alexander Branson's one bequest that happened before the will”, Holmes said. “The necklace that he had made for his daughter.”

She smiled reminiscently.

“Gladys loves anything to do with jewels”, she said, “so Alex had a very glamorous fake necklace made up for her. Why did you ask me to bring it here today, sir?”

Holmes hesitated.

“I am afraid, madam, that that necklace is _not_ a fake. It is in fact some sixteen thousand pounds worth of jewellery. At a conservative estimate.”

She looked like she was going to faint, but rallied.

“I did wonder when Alex said I was not to pass it on unless a certain item was first handed to me”, she admitted. “Do you have it?”

Holmes passed over the metal box containing the seafaring items. She checked them briefly, then reached into her reticule and passed Holmes a jewellery box which he quickly checked before pocketing. 

“I have one other thing for you, sir”, she said, suddenly shy for some reason. “Alex told me to hand this to whoever gave me his box.”

Holmes took the letter, opened it and read it all the way through. Then he blushed fiercely. Curious, I took it from him and read it myself:

_'Mr. Holmes,_   
_The fact you're reading this says two things, don't it? First I'm paying for my crimes, and second you've found the loot. Well done you. I knew you were the only chap in London Town I could trust to do right by young Gladys. Esme is a good stick and her husband is all right I suppose, but a girl with that much money needs a powerful man keeping a distant eye on her in this day and age, at least until she can look after herself. I've read about how you does justice first and the law second, and I know I can trust you._   
_All the best from Hell._   
_Alexander Branson (deceased)'_

I stared at Holmes.

“He knew”, I said slowly. 

My friend nodded and handed a small card to Mrs. Arlesburgh.

“Any time either you or young Gladys need me”, he said. “Any time, just call.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
